


Far From Sorrow

by bravelikealady



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-27 00:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6261421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravelikealady/pseuds/bravelikealady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wolves have risen once again: Winterfell stands, Rickon sits the Northern throne, and Arya has come home. Sansa Stark has seen to this, even after the human horrors of the Vale, and the inexplicable horrors of her return to the Crownlands. No northern man, woman, or child would have begrudged her the crown. Many are terrified of the state the youngest Stark has returned in... though she once she dreamed of being queen, there is a figure from her dreams she must find... so much she must say... a hound to save...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far From Sorrow

She has spent the last four years looking for him. Many had asked the question of her before... the makeshift Maester she found in the rubble of her bastard brother’s life, the wild little man she left in his care and on the throne, the shadow of a sister that stood behind her even now, and every person she had tracked down to bring her to this very spot in this very sept… 

 

But it is not until, sea salt still kissing her skin from the mud ridden walk in, she is asked by the Elder Brother that she gives the question any real consideration.

 

_ “Why?” _

 

This is the first time she has consciously taken a breath in all of her journey. She closes her eyes, hoping to quell the welling, feels her chest rise and fall, her heart beat within her but seemingly without her.

 

“I…”

 

She looks over her shoulder as her voice breaks, her eyes meeting her sister’s. Arya nods, then looks down, and it is the first time that she has behaved in any way other than dutiful towards her. The flicker of emotion, of support, however small, is what Sansa uses to steel herself. And she tells the truth. An art still new… an act accompanied with the adrenaline of fear and impending doom.

 

“I had hoped I could save him.” 

 

Her lower lip trembles and she wipes a fallen tear away before it hits her cheek, as casually as if she were swatting a fly. This is the first time she has felt anything publicly in years. Shame pushes the blush forward to her skin and even by the warmth of the fire pit that circles the center of the antechamber she looks freshly raw from snow. 

 

“So had I, child. So had I.”

 

The Elder Brother walks forward. Arya moves to Sansa’s side and waits. They take the first steps together. Crossing the veiled archway, the sisters find themselves in a modest hall, though beautiful in its own right. Sunlight spills through the stained glass windows on their right, littering the floor with color, something like dancing ghosts, melting wax. Fiery amber, forest green, and deep amethyst shards dance on their skin and clothes, but for all their beauty offer no warmth. 

 

“Mother would love it here,” Arya chokes in an unsure whisper, another pin point of remembrances shared between two women who did not know who they were, who were not sure that the life they once shared had been real at all.

 

“Yes,” Sansa says, taking her sister’s hand and leading. Sansa and Arya are both broken, both more concept than human, but Arya takes feeling harder, a fact not spoken but known by all in their household. Despite the wounded way it leaves the, they value the fractured and harsh exchange of truth, as they do the feel of clasped hands and the share of skin with Stark blood flowing throughout. 

 

The Elder brother stops where the long hall shifts into a semicircle. Sansa draws in a breath and feels Arya’s fingers tighten around her own as they find familiar figures equally spaced along the curve.

 

_ Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Crone, Stranger. _

 

Sansa is unsure of who led whom when suddenly, now an arms length from the Stranger, Arya staring through him while she studies the chiseled wrinkles of cloth in the stone figure, tracing lines upward to the human half of the deity’s face. She begins reaching up to touch it, stops short, her heart in her throat, her stomach dropping to the floor, the memory of the green lights dancing over the blood spatter, not his own, on the side of  _ his  _ face that looked hardly human, not unlike the skeletal half of the statue’s visage. 

 

“His horse,” Sansa begins then stops.

 

“Yes,” Arya and the Elder Brother say in unison, Arya’s voice a whisper, the Elder Brother’s more natural, more confident. 

 

Arya turns to the Elder Brother, breaking their locked fingers, and for a moment Sansa wonders if she means to fight him. The Brother simply smiles at Arya then moves to consider Sansa before asking, “Would you like to see him?”

 

_ No, _ she thinks. _ I am here and want nothing more than to turn back. _ She could not find a reason for this, but it was no matter. She was shaking her head yes, whatever it meant.

 

\-------------**---------------

 

“He is called Driftwood now,” the Brother says, standing back from the stall that encased Sandor Clegane’s mount. 

 

_ And true companion _ , Sansa thinks sadly. Arya approaches the gate, leaning upon it, and before the Elder Brother can utter his protest she speaks, “I remember you, ugly beast.”

 

The muscular courser snorts violently and kicks at the ground. Sansa steps forward to the half door, more cautiously, unleaning. Arya turns to her, her eyes narrowing in severity, “Be careful, he’s the meanest horse I’ve ever met.”

 

“I’m not worried.” Sansa reaches out her hand, just as she did to the statue in the Sept, but this time she keeps it extended, sure, steady, even as unknowable feelings vibrate within her. The horse paces to her, still snorting, nostrils flared, and she closes her eyes, feeling foolish, but preparing to lose a finger if she must... For what reason, again, she could not say. 

 

Then suddenly, her hand was pressed against warmth, softness. Eyes opening, she grips her fingers into the soot black hair and slowly strokes Stranger. In mere seconds the courser pulls away, giving a low neigh, and Sansa thinks she hears something of melancholy.

 

“Fine then,” Arya says, laughing.

 

Sansa is not laughing. Sansa is crying.

 

_ He pulled away. Just as the Hound always had _ . Muscles tense as she remembers a knife to her neck… Shutting her eyes tight, gripping a beam in the stable, by turns, she remembers…  remembers his arms catching her around the stomach as she nearly stumbles to her death, his palm pressed into her back, forcefully but so gently a hundred or a thousand times, the way he lifts her grief stricken girlhood frame from bed, rousing her just enough to remember the role she has to play… the knife to her neck, his hand gripping her wrist so tight, pressing her against that bed… the green light, the smell of the world burning, his lips pressed against hers… and dreaming of him, dreaming, dreaming, dreaming--

 

“Sansa?”

 

She opens her eyes, trying to catch her breath. Arya stands by her side rubbing her back, too gently, as if she might break or else did not know if this is the way a sister behaves.

 

“What is it Sansa? Strang--Driftwood--he turned back, I… I don’t think he’ll hurt you, I’ve never seen him be so nice.”

 

“Nor I,” the Elder Brother offers. Sansa and Arya share a look. They had both forgotten him, too wrapped in their private world of grief and loss and this crushing new beginning, the air too thick around them, remembering their own Stranger, united by inexplicable pangs for some cruel near-savior. 

 

“You grow pale, child.”

 

The Elder Brother lends her his arm. Sansa wraps her own arm under his, curling her fingers just barely into the rough, woven cloth, and wondering how it might have felt against Sandor Clegane’s burns, if he did truly serve here, like she dreamed, and Arya dropped behind them as he guided all further into the island. 

 

Violet buds covered all but a narrow clearing down the midst on this side of the island and as they walked along the path Sansa notes small yellow-leafed shrubs barely off ground, bearing blue-black berries. It did not rain but moisture sat in the air all around them, dew-kissing their skin and resting upon rather than soaking their hair. Sansa’s eyes, nose, and mouth drink it in, and she is pleased as she looks back and sees Arya’s almost-smile as she tries and fails to wipe the moisture off of her cloak and tunic. 

 

“Have you ever seen ravenberries, child?”

 

“I have not,” she responds to the Elder Brother. “Few crops are hearty enough for Winterfell. It even snows in the height of summer. And the times when I was away… cultivated gardens, chosen for beauty alone, that was all I saw… I used to love those. But I am learning that there is so much to miss in the wild.”

 

“We try to live thinly and plainly here so it is not something that happens oft, but it is a treat to cook fish, salted and rolled in the crushed leaves. The berries themselves make a tea that offers much healing.” 

 

Sansa smiles at that, “As helpful and useful as it is beautiful. I wonder if they could survive the cold.”

 

“Well, I don’t think our little piece of land would miss a root or two. If you keep them wrapped in dirt and moist, you are welcome to try to travel home with a few, a token of your time here on our little isle.”

 

“Thank you, but we’ve so far to go.”

 

“Yes.”

 

They move on without words, shifting into a single file line, the squish of boots on the dewy grass giving cadence. As the sky’s blue gives way to ominous grey, the wild violet and yellow die down, opening onto a clearing, stone speckled against the horizon. Their curvature and chiseled faces form more clearly and as Sansa’s breath caught in her throat, Arya cried out, “I will wait. I… If it is all the same, I will wait just here. If you will be well… ”

 

Sansa gives a nod to her sister, her eyes following the way Arya’s long face curves into Jon’s slender nose, the space between their father’s wide set, serious eyes. There was something of joy in her veins in that moment…  _ no matter what, Arya is here, my family…  _ between the two of them the Stark line and the Tully line would not be forgotten. On look alone they were constant reminders to those around them of the dissolution of their ancestors, their mother and father and so, as it did every day, the joy found itself stuck in stone in the pit of her stomach. As she did every day, every day since Baelor, Sansa carried on. 

 

“His brother,” Sansa whispered as she and the Elder Brother entered the cemetery, “...his brother was not a kind man.”

 

“I had gathered as much.”

 

“It was said he died once, Brother, but I watched him die a second time.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Yes. I am still uncertain of how… there are so many things beyond my understanding…”

 

“I have many years on you, child, and I can say the same is true for me. I walk always in the guidance of the Seven and still it is not all clear.”

 

“You are kind to say such.”

 

“No, it is true.”

 

“That may be so, but you offered up your own uncertainties to comfort me. I am appreciative of comfort. It is no small thing to state fears and shortcomings aloud.”

 

“You were speaking of Sandor Clegane’s brother…”

 

“Yes. He died, finally, and… I stepped down from the Northern throne, I put my youngest brother in the seat, made sure I found a Maester who would love him, cherish him, and be more able to soothe and heal his mind than I. I brought Arya home. And still… I thought he should know.”

 

“The abominations of Qyburn’s free reign under Cersei Lannister are known far and wide. Even here, we heard whisper of what may have become of Gregor Clegane.”

 

“I know that, Brother… and… it was not enough. I needed to tell him. I needed to… I…”

 

Sansa found herself catching her breath, tears spilling from her eyes. In the damp embrace of the Quiet Isle, sunset suffocating behind a grey sky, she found herself not caring who saw. She trusted that this raw display would not pass from the Brother’s lips to another’s ear and even if it did, she found that she did not care. So many did not care when she needed them to…  _ Let me have my tears. Let me have my grief over a man so many thought a monster. _

 

“We are here.”

 

She does not want to but she turns, following the guide of the Brother’s pointed finger. The stone was small and seemed near falling over. Chiseled upon it:

 

_ The Hound _

_ Let Him Know Peace _

 

Sansa kneels, mud gripping her knees through her skirts. Running her fingers gently down the stone she lets a thought come to the front of her mind, she decides to set it free.

 

“I prayed for him, Brother. I prayed to the Mother, that she might gentle the rage inside of him, understand him. He saved me once… and then over and over again in my dreams, in my mind, he… after a time I heard his words and imagined his face more than I did my own father’s. I have wondered if there is a kind of blasphemy in it.”

 

“Lady Sansa…”

 

“Perhaps it is better that I do not know. I wish… I so wished to save him, Brother. Was he at peace?”

 

“The Hound was never a man of peace, my lady. You and I both know this to be true.”

 

“How did you find him? Could you not save him?”

 

“I laid the Hound to rest as best I could.”

 

“I believe you. Thank you. Thank you, Brother.”

 

The Elder Brother offers her his hand. Sansa takes it and feels her head try to float away as she rises to her feet. Arya’s slight figure acts as a beacon in the distance, her dark hair free in the wind, distorting her face. “I suppose I should return to my sister.”

 

“Let us both. Please, join me in our kitchens until these grey clouds pass. I will send word to your men at the docks. I think a warm soup and fine mead would help to cheer you both.”

 

\-------------------**------------------------

 

A small fire crackles in front of their table the Elder Brother ladles soup into the bowls he set before them. Arya immediately begins to slurp it down, still unaccustomed to regular food. Sansa knows that this is not the time or the place to try to curb the feral nature of her sister and so she watches the embers dance. A board of bread is placed on the center of the table and Sansa tears a piece and passes it to Arya, aware that she is too concerned with the soup to notice. She takes a piece for herself but she does not eat.

 

“There is something I must attend to in my office, just beyond there. Please, Lady Sansa, try to eat.” 

 

She picks up the spoon and tries to take a sip. The soup is warm and not unpleasant on her stomach, only her mind is not here in the little kitchen of a brotherhood. It is far and away… in King’s Landing where Sandor Clegane was tangible but not understandable… in the Eyrie where dreams of him offered her safety and something of an awakening of her womanhood, a phenomena she was still unsure of how to feel… in the memory of Sweetrobin, who was only a boy when his life was over, just as Sandor had been… in the eyes of Harry Hardyng as he died before her, a young man of cruel laughter but a pawn all the same, and then gone away from this world…

 

She is unsure how long the Elder Brother has been back in the room, unsure how long he has been trying to speak to her. Steam no longer rises from the soup before her and half of the bread is gone,  _ to Arya no doubt _ .

 

“Brother, forgive me… I… I like to watch the fire. And perhaps I am more tired than I realize.”

 

“Would you come with me, child?”

 

“Where?”

 

“Just into my solar, it branches off from the kitchen directly.”

 

Sansa pushes her chair back and stands, Arya following suit somewhat aggressively. 

 

“You can continue eating Arya, it’s alright.”

 

“How can you be sure?” Arya scowls at the Elder Brother and cuts glances at the door he has gone through and now returned from.

 

“I would not hurt your sister, child. You are at peace now.”

 

“Forgive me, but I don’t believe in such a thing.”

 

“I understand.”

 

“Yes, I’m sure the war ravaged your quiet brotherhood and pretty little flower patches.”

 

“I understand more than you know. Come with us if you wish, though I think this moment may be one your sister would want alone--”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“Arya,” Sansa calls out to her sister. “He has been nothing but kind to us, please.”

 

She holds Sansa’s gaze as she repeats, “What does that mean?”

 

“I have something to show you, Sansa. And I suppose you as well, Arya, but keep quiet. Please.”

 

He walks to the door, the sisters following behind him, Sansa looking at Arya with a mixture of empathy and disbelief. She nearly walks into the Brother as he stops abruptly and turns back.

 

“I do understand, Arya. More than you know. It is a story for another time, but I promise you: there is power in relinquishing the fight.”

 

There are tears forming in Arya’s eyes. “I’ll stay behind afterall. I’m sure it’s nothing impressive. But know that I’m quick, Brother, and losing any more family would only make me quicker.”

 

“To be sure.”

 

He opens the door and gestures for Sansa to follow. She squeezes Arya’s hand and does so.

 

The way is narrow and the floor creaks beneath their feet nearly every step as their shadows flicker with the dance of sparsely placed sconces on the wall. The smell of the sea mingles with the smell of the old wood and Sansa thinks to herself that she likes it. It does not smell of home but it does not smell of any place she has been before.  _ Fresh ground to mourn on. Is this the likes of which will bring me peace? Is this the feeling I have to hope for? _ Though she tries, Sansa cannot find any words or topics of conversation to guide them through the dimly lit hall. The silence is not uncomfortable, the Elder Brother not untrustworthy, but the absence of confirmed peace has so often meant the worse for Sansa that she fights off a nervous energy all the same. It is not long before they are in front of a wide black door, the wood marked by time and perhaps a rogue brother desperate to have a word.

 

“What I have to show you, Sansa… Whatever it is that you need or want once we enter… it is yours, it is all in your hands. We thought it important that you know that.”

 

“We,” she asks as he turns the knob and opens the door. He gestures and she enters. A sliver of orange and purple light can be seen through the window before her and she is about to remark on the way the sunset resembles the colors of the stained glass when the door clicks shut and she notices an extra shadow. Gasping she turns toward it. 

 

“Is this some trap?”

 

“No, Sansa, no.”

 

The shadow disappears as the third figure slinks back into the shadows. 

 

“Trust me please, Sansa. I know that must be hard. But will you try?”

 

“If I scream, Arya will find me and though I told her it was unnecessary in this hallowed place I am confident she is armed.”

 

“I have no doubt. Please.”

 

Sansa clutches at her cloak with one hand and places the other around a dagger she keeps along the back of a small belt around her hips. She tries counting backward to steel herself as the Elder Brother speaks to whomever is in the shadow. At twenty-two he returns.

 

“I think it is best if I leave the room but I am right outside the door. Is this okay?”

 

No, no, no, no. Then she breathes deeply, pushes her shoulders back, tries to feel the room.  _ What is there to lose? Rickon is safe. Arya is as well as she’ll ever be. The only person left to save is dead. What is there to lose? _

 

It is rash. It is foolish. She agrees.

 

Once the door is shut, Sansa waits quietly. Too long passes.

 

“Hello?”

 

She waits. She hears a rustle. 

 

“I deserve to know who you are and what this is about. The Elder Brother seems a kind man but he would not be the first misguided--”

 

Into the pool of light cast by candlelight just outside the confines of the corner she sees a foot… then a walking cane… and the other… 

 

“Step into the light.”

 

The figure does. Tall and broad, the cloak of the brotherhood hiding the face, the figure clears his throat. She pulls her dagger from behind and holds it before her. 

 

“Speak.”

 

He steps forward and Sansa takes three large, quick steps towards the door.  _ You fool, you fool, _ she chastises herself and as she reaches for the knob, the voice finally comes and she cannot feel her legs, but she finds a way to turn.

 

“Little bird…” 

 

The rasp is softer now, but she still recognizes it, the embodiment of steel on stone. It has warmth now and she finds herself desperate to hear it again, even as she doesn’t believe it.

 

“Your leg…” She notices the misshapen length beneath the run of his breeches and stares at the large, scarred hand that grips the top of the walking stick.

 

“I… you are dead, he said… I saw… the Hound is dead…”

 

Sansa can hear his breath, mingling with the sound of her own heart beat. She takes a step closer and raises her hands to either side of the hood. He does not resist when she pushes it back. 

 

And there he is, the same heavy brow and grey eyes, his hair falling only to his sharp cheekbone. She places one hand along his cheek and, more carefully, her right palm resting on his neck, fingers gently resting on the skin that remained on his jaw. Sansa takes him in, all of him, the good and the bad. There are crinkles along his eye that were not there before. The grey is glistening, glittering, and time stands still.

 

Finally his rough hand meets her own. Sandor Clegane closes his eyes and almost nuzzles into it.

 

“Sansa.”

 

“Sandor.”

 

“I… that night…”

 

“Shhh.”

 

The purple sky gives way to the black of night and they stand, two shadows in time, two ghosts from another life in the center of a place that their nightmares never sullied, not a broken bird and a beaten dog, but a woman and a man. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
